


There Might Be More To Spam Than Canned Meat

by maaaaa



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23641045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa
Summary: Written in response to the Sentinel Thursday challenge "Spam". Very mild slash later in the story.
Relationships: Jim Ellison/Blair Sandburg
Kudos: 10





	There Might Be More To Spam Than Canned Meat

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to the Sentinel Thursday challenge "Spam". Very mild slash later in the story.

A long, rickety, weather-beaten wooden pier jutted out into the lake from next to an abandoned boathouse. Two upturned rowboats, one with a jagged, gaping hole, were propped against its side. The lake was small and picturesque, surrounded by stands of hemlock and tall spruce trees.

There’d been a summer camp here at one time. There were flat-stones, overgrown with weeds and brambles, forming a trail that led from the sandy beachfront up through the trees to deserted buildings. There were a few cottages still in use along the eastern shore of the lake. And directly across from the pier was a newer, state-of-the-art camp; presently being used by the Cascade High football team for its mid-summer training.

A soft breeze stirred the treetops and rippled across the lake’s surface shattering the early morning sun’s reflection into sparkles of gold. Water gently lapped at the pier’s pylons, just enough so that, from where Jim stood, the pier seemed to rock. Or maybe the illusion was due to his unsteadiness; he wasn’t sure. He was sucking in air in long, deep gulps and kneading his side where a sudden stitch had caused him to pull up short. He waved his fellow runners on with his free hand, vowing to catch up shortly.

A child stood near the far end of the pier, watching the runners. Jim thought at first it was a girl; a quick-glance assumption based on the long, curly hair fluttering in the breeze. The child was bare-chested and wearing baggy knee-length swim trunks, so he immediately changed his mind. It looked to Jim that the boy might be about six, maybe seven. But he wasn’t a good judge of that sort of thing. Even still, he wondered what the boy was doing there.

The boy leaned against the upright of a swim ladder, and wrapped an arm around it. He was holding something against his chest with his other hand but Jim couldn’t make out what it was. Suddenly aware that Jim was looking at him, the boy smiled and waved a hand gawkily, not letting go of the ladder.

Feeling foolish for staring, Jim flicked a hand in response and then hobbled off to the tall grass alongside the running path, out of the way of his teammates, still clutching his side. He dropped down onto the grass, laid back, and closed his eyes. He’d been at the head of the pack of runners, and tried to keep count in his head as the others jogged past, their footfalls plodding along in the sand. Once or twice one of them would stop and ask if he was all right, but for the most part they seemed oblivious to his presence, most likely intent on finishing the three-mile circuit around the lake and getting to breakfast.

The jabbing pain eased little by little and just as it let up completely Jim heard what had to be the last of the runners approaching. But the sound of the footfalls changed abruptly from the soft thump of feet on sand to the hollowed clunk of weight on wood. He sat up and watched as two of his teammates jogged out to the end of the pier.

It was Barker and Gibson, team hotshots who took pleasure in bullying whoever didn’t measure up to their standards. Incredulously, they were hassling the boy, tugging his hair and calling him names. Jim shook his head, wondering what perverse pleasure they could possibly derive from picking on the kid, and stood up. He was about to yell at them to leave the kid alone and get back to camp, when Barker’s tone turned sharper. He held out his hand and Jim could now hear him demand the boy give him whatever it was he was hanging onto. The boy refused with a curt headshake. Barker laughed derisively and simply snatched the item away. Gibson grabbed the boy as he lunged at Barker and swung him away.

The second Barker grabbed at the kid, Jim started sprinting toward the three, shouting as he ran.

“Barker! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The kid’s arms were flailing and his legs were scissoring madly as he spit at Barker, “It’s mine! Give it a me!”

Jim could see what the item was now…a battered blue Spam can. Barker was pawing through its contents and tossing them carelessly about, some landing in the lake. As Jim approached, he looked over at him and said, “Stay outta this Ellison.”

“Are you kidding me?” Jim flung back at him. He shoved Barker hard with both hands, throwing him off balance. “Leave the kid alone and get back to camp.”

Barker dropped the can on the deck behind him and Gibson dropped the kid, who scrambled away, eyeing the out of reach can. Then Barker and Gibson turned on Jim.

“What’s it to you, Ellison?” Gibson snarled. “He’s just a ratty little hippie’s kid.” He pointed a finger upward toward the abandoned summer campground. “They think they’re gonna start some sorta commune up there.”

“I don’t care,” Jim stated, holding his ground. He glanced at the little boy, who was watching the proceedings with saucer-wide eyes. When he returned his gaze to his teammates it was calm and piercing. “Get back to camp or---.”

“Or what?” Barker interrupted, challenging.

“Or you’re off the team,” Jim said coolly. “Right after I kick both your asses.” He stared off into the blue and then continued off-the-cuff, “ I know you’ve both been sneaking out after lights out and I know where your stash is.”

“You’re full of it, Ellison,” Gibson protested weakly, looking at Barker with just a trace of panic.

Jim just set his jaw, knowing his bullshit must’ve hit close and responded, “Who do you think the coach is gonna believe?”

As team captain, and probably the most straightforward, honest member of the team, they all knew it would be Ellison. Not wanting to blow his spot on the team or face his father’s wrath at being kicked off, Barker threw up his hands in an attempt to mollify things.

“Okay, all right, geez Jim, no need to get all bent outta shape. We were just having a little fun.” Barker slapped Gibson on the back and said, “Forget it Gibbers, let’s go.”

Gibson gave the kid one last rude sneer and then kicked the Spam can, sending it, and whatever else it still held, into the lake.

“Noooooo!” the boy screeched, and before Jim could stop him, he ran to the end of the pier and jumped in.

Barker and Gibson hooted with laughter and then jogged off, giving Jim contemptuous glares as they left.

Ignoring them, Jim hurried to the end of the pier. The boy was just surfacing, spluttering madly and looking about wildly. It was instantly apparent to Jim that he was in over his head, both literally and figuratively. He quickly heeled his shoes off and dove in. He hooked an arm around the kid, keeping his head above water in a rescue-hold and swam to the ladder. He climbed up, hauling the kid with him, and set him on the pier. He ran his hands up and down the kid’s arms briskly and asked, “Are you all right?”

The boy nodded slowly, watching Jim intently. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. He was sniffling, but Jim didn’t think he was crying. He was holding the can with his other hand. Jim took a good look at it.

It was dented in a couple of places and the paint was partially worn away. The rim was covered with several layers of duct tape, most likely to protect the youngster’s hands from any sharp edges. Jim couldn’t help but wonder what it meant to the boy, and inquired by raising one eyebrow and tipping his head slightly.

But all the boy said was, “Thanks, mister.”

The kid got down on his hands and knees then and started gathering the things Barker hadn’t tossed in the lake. He examined each one carefully before putting it back in the can. Jim squatted down and helped. It was an eclectic array of things…odd looking coins, pebbles and stones, small carvings of wood or metal.

“Your treasures?” Jim asked softly as he passed what he’d picked up to the boy.

The boy rolled to his butt and sat, cross-legged. He shrugged and then nodded. “Yeah.” He scrutinized what Jim had given him, placed it all in the can with care, and then looked at the lake and sighed. “I couldn’t swim to the bottom. To find all my stuff. All I got was the can.” He shrugged again, apologetically, as only a young child is able to do.

Realizing the kid felt bad that he’d had to jump in after him and all he had to show for it was an old can, Jim just patted his shoulder and said, “It’s okay, Sport.”

Just then, from somewhere out of sight in the woods, someone called, “Kumquat? Where’re ya?”

“Kumquat?” Jim asked, not able to suppress a chortle.

“It’s just a nickname,” the boy answered defensively as he got to his feet. The call came again, and they both glanced in the direction from which it came. “I gotta go,” the boy said. He rummaged in the can and pulled out a little carved animal. He rubbed it between his fingers thoughtfully and then held it out to Jim.

“You don’t have to---,” Jim started, not taking the carving. But he changed his mind when the kid gave him a crushed look. “Okay, sure, thanks,” he amended quickly. “Where’d you get it?”

The boy’s face scrunched up for a moment and then he said, “Borneo. A guy gave it to me. Mom said he was a, a, shama, I think. I’m gonna go back there some day, “ he said confidently.

“Borneo, huh?” Jim repeated skeptically.

The kid just nodded enthusiastically, not picking up on Jim’s disbelief. He smiled and then took off with a quick wave, scampering down the pier and disappearing into the woods.

Jim sat down, placing the carving next to him on the pier, and put his shoes on. After lacing them up, he picked the carving up again and looked at it, wondering idly where it’d really come from and why the boy treasured it. He tossed it up in the air and caught it and for a moment contemplated skipping it out into the lake. Instead, he tossed it up again and caught it in his other hand, gripping it tightly. Then he got up and jogged back to camp.

~0~0~

It was cleaning day in Blair’s old room. Since moving upstairs with Jim, it had become even more of a catchall than it had been before.

Jim was trying to dislodge a tightly wedged box off the top shelf of the closet, grumbling under his breath about the amount of stuff one fairly young, flighty anthropologist could manage to accumulate.

“I heard that, Ellison,” Blair said as he came up behind Jim and hugged him around the waist.

Jim glanced over his shoulder, grinned, and gave Blair a quick kiss. He then gave one final tug and the box came free with a little more force than he’d planned on, sending them both backwards. They landed on the futon in an ungainly heap, laughing. The box hit the floor and brought with it a grubby old blue can, which tipped over, spilling its contents.

Jim gave Blair another kiss, swatted his butt, and got up. He got down onto the floor and started sweeping the spillage up with the curve of his hand. When he grabbed the can and looked at it, and odd sense of déjà vu washed over him.

“Spam, Chief?” he asked with a laugh, showing it to Blair.

“Wow, hey man, I wondered where that got to,” Blair answered as he got down on the floor next to Jim. He took the can and fingered the loose ends of the tape on the rim. “I’ve had that since I was about five. Naomi hated it. Couldn’t figure out why I kept my treasures in something that had once held meat. But it was just the perfect size at the time.” Blair sat cross-legged, examining the small items Jim handed to him one by one before putting them back in the can.

The sense of déjà vu became stronger.

“Have you ever shown me this before?’ Jim wondered, looking perplexed.

“Hmmmm, don’t think so,” Blair said thoughtfully, scrunching his face.

Images of a sparkling lake, tall trees, and a small boy flitted through Jim’s head. But he couldn’t latch onto anything concrete.

“Show it to me now?” Jim requested somberly.

“Sure,” Blair responded easily. He cozy-ed up next to Jim, nudged him hard with his hip, demanding and receiving yet another kiss, and then dumped the contents of the Spam can out onto the floor again, showing everything to Jim and telling what he could recall about its childhood significance.

“There’s one carving I’d loved for you to have seen, but I lost it a long time ago,” Blair said, sounding a little downcast.

‘Déjà vu my ass,’ Jim thought. He got up suddenly and left the room.

Confused, Blair called out after him. “Jim?”

Jim didn’t answer, but a few minutes later he came back into the room, a silly grin on his face. There was something in his hand, held tightly in his fist. He sat next to Blair again and then opened his hand.

There, lying on his palm was a small wooden animal, a jungle cat of some sort.

“No way!” Blair exclaimed with a mixture of glee and disbelief. “How?” he asked wondrously, beaming.

Jim took Blair’s hand and dropped the amulet into it.

“You know all that stuff you’re always telling me about fate and karma?” Jim hinted, his grin growing.

“Yeah,” Blair answered warily, smiling back.

“Well, get comfy, Chief,” Jim instructed, following his own advice by snagging a few pillows from the futon, scooting onto one, and handing the other to Blair. “Have I got a story for you.”


End file.
